


Significant Digits

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fandom Loves Puerto Rico, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Nerds flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14407551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: “Call me,” it reads, followed by a long string of grouped numbers, none the right length for a phone number.Harold’s face almost passes for unmoved, but for the teasing glint in his eyes when he turns back to the projection screen. “Happy hunting, Mr. Reese.”(Harold doesn't make things easy for John, but he make things a lot more interesting.)





	Significant Digits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entigral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entigral/gifts).



> Fandom Loves Puerto Rico fic for entigral! Hope you enjoy! ❤

The third time it happens, Shaw calls him on it without even looking up from her phone.

“You know you’re obsessed, right?” she asks and, honestly, she isn’t exactly wrong.

As much as John would like to deny it, he’s the one that told her about the “ _two times is a coincidence three times is a pattern_ ” rule in the first place and, well, this is not the first or even second time he’s gotten caught _sort of_ staring. He doesn’t look over when Joss’ attention turns to them, but he can tell she’s smirking.

“What is it today?” she asks, propping her chin up in her hand and, much more subtly, following his gaze. “The vest or the bowtie?”

John’s face doesn’t really change, he’s never been prone to flushing, but he does feel a little flash of embarrassment at being seen through so easily.

Harold – whose name John only knows because Joss is a good friend – had caught John’s attention without even having shared classes. When the weather is particularly nice, Harold has the tendency to hold his office hours outside in the courtyard between the communications building and the Armed Forces building. A strategic decision that gave Harold space and relative quiet, while still repeatedly putting him in John’s direct line of sight when training on the field below.

Initially, it was probably the flash of his blue suit that had caught John’s attention, but then he found himself listening to Harold try to convince a freshman that math was not only important, but also interesting. It was a tired argument, used by tired math teachers the world over… but not when Harold said it. John has never been more enamored by the concept of pi than when Harold had explained it in a voice that carried just far enough for John to hear. He found himself paying attention to him mostly to hear the sound of his voice while he went through his reps, hopelessly enthralled.

However, when he gets caught staring through a window like a dope while he’s supposed to be enjoying lunch with his friends, it’s easier to let them tease him about his supposed tie kink. “Can _you_ tie a bowtie?” he asks.

“So the bowtie,” Joss concludes and Shaw snickers.

“Branching out, huh, Reese?” she adds mostly to be a dick, but also because she knows him.

John has been accused of having a type before, often enough that he isn’t really surprised by his own attraction. The idea of John doting on a kind, no-nonsense sort of American girl hadn’t even been a _question_ until he met Harold Last-Name-Presently-Unknown.

And he has _met_ Harold, once, but that first time was less than flattering, something John accepts with equal parts embarrassment and levity.

He had been blitzed, ok? Jessica had just left him to chase a domestic dream in the sort of shithole small town he never wants to go back to, still can’t quite understand why she would. He was at a college to ‘ _make something of himself’_ , but he wasn’t even sure what—wasn’t even sure _if_ he wanted to be made into anything. Basically, his future was only about as clear as the jungle juice in his cup.

According to Joss, who had been significantly more sober at the time, Harold had been seeking some fresh air on the back porch of the party. Apparently, he hadn’t even wanted to attend it and was approaching the limits of his tolerance when the people inside started pounding shots. But instead of finding himself alone with lightning bugs and bass-knock, he found Joss and John, more than a little drunk, the latter intently focused on the pattern of Harold’s bowtie. Then on the fact that he was even _wearing_ one, who wore a bowtie to a frat house—wait, what _twenty something year old_ wore bowties period?

…It did suit him, though, it looked very nice.

John hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud, but he must have, because Harold had looked over at him blankly and said something to the effect of, “Well, at least you’re a solicitous lush.”

John would like to believe he responded with something clever, but he isn’t even _completely_ sure Harold spoke at all, because in the next second he woke up half under Shaw in a sunlit dorm neither of them had a key to.

The gap in his memory is more than a little concerning, but Joss had been annoyed not irate and there are no warrants out for their arrest that John can tell.

That might change today, though, because as he’s waving his student off, Harold catches John’s eye and his face makes the quick change from startled to stern.

John smiles in a way that he hopes is friendly, but it must miss the mark as it has the unintended effect of making Harold’s eyes narrow angrily. Even as John’s stomach swoops, he can’t help but think how much he looks like an irate bird as he storms towards the door and directly towards their table.

“Fuck’s sake, John,” Shaw mutters as Joss turns just slow enough to give John a pointed look before looking at Harold apologetically.

Harold speaks before any of them, before John can even formulate an excuse for getting caught staring for what is obviously not the first time. “Can I help you with something, _Mr. Reese_?”

A startled pause descends on the table, at least as far as Shaw and Joss. John smiles when his heart trips in his chest with a confusing mix of emotions he can’t quite sort out. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he says, “I never caught your last name, Harold.”

“To the best of my recollection, I never gave it,” Harold replies quite primly. “However, it appears as though I have done something to catch your continued attention. I imagine it will be less painful for all involved parties if we get the problem out of the way now.”

John had been so tickled to hear a string of words from Harold all at once, that now he’s a little thrown by the defensiveness of them.

“Ballsy,” Shaw comments appreciatively and Harold gives her an odd look she completely ignores to leer at John. “Guess I can see why you like him.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Reese can be a little unnerving,” Joss says, “but to be fair, he’s new to human emotions.”

“She means I was just admiring,” John admits gently, when Harold stares at her blankly. “No ill intent.”

Harold is a little flummoxed by that, clearly at a loss for words. John is a little proud to have done that, though he wonders why admirers aren’t inherently familiar to Harold.

“Oh,” Harold says, visually recalculating this exchange on the fly. “I’m… flattered,” he decides eventually, though it sounds a bit like a question.

John smiles unabashedly. “I’m glad.”

“Disgusting,” Shaw mumbles, shoveling food into her mouth.

Harold nearly stiffens again until Joss waves her hand at him. “That’s his sister, she’s _allergic_ to most human emotions.” She sits back in her chair, smug and unbothered, when Shaw flips her off.

“So…” John begins and pretends not to notice Joss and Shaw instinctively rolling their eyes at his tone, “Have I impressed you enough to get your number?”

Harold’s mouth twists like he’s annoyed, but John thinks he detects a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Surely I haven’t given you the indication I am so easily won over,” he responds drily.

“Ok, I’m gonna start gagging, too,” Joss warns.

“No need for that,” Harold says easily, clearly less unsettled than he was just moments before, if still wary. “I was just on my way.”

“I can’t impress you if I don’t know how to get in contact with you,” John adds.

Harold’s phone buzzes in his hand, but he ignores it in favor of eyeing John curiously. “I do believe that ship has sailed,” is all he says before nodding politely at Shaw and Joss and heading back out of the hall.

John spends a good part of the day trying to piece together if that was meant to be a complement or not.

//

Harold starts timing his outdoor office hours so John can see him during drills, but is long gone by the time John finishes. John has no proof of this other than the fact that he pays very close attention when he can spare the glances and is not a slow walker. Harold is always gone by the time John gets back up the stairs past the fountain to attempt to speak with him.

“You know, I admire the dedication.”

John turns to see a face that’s familiar in that it could belong to any number of the business students John runs into on campus. He’s got the same easy, _trust-me_ smile, too. Oddly enough, John doesn’t think it’s misleading.

A little annoying, maybe, but not wholly false.

John gives him a smile just as easy around the edges, if a little less genuine. “Come again?”

“This _is_ me coming again,” the man replies with a flourish, “I wanted to see if your attention was as _‘overt’_ as Harold claims.”

John’s eyebrows raise at that. He only narrowly avoids sounding like a lovesick teenager and saying, _he talks about me?_ Instead, he just eyes Harold’s ‘friend’ warily. “You here to defend his honor?”

That earns him a laugh. “I doubt either of us could touch Harold’s honor, even if that’s a metaphor,” he stands, offering a hand. “Nathan Ingram. I come bearing advice that I definitely didn’t give you, understand?”

John understands and shakes his hand. “Ok, Nathan Ingram,” he says amiably, “What advice are you not giving me?”

Nathan smiles. “Harold doesn’t hate you or anything,” he says. “He’s just very particular about his ties.”

John blinks at that. “I... said it looked nice?” he replies, confused, because he had and he’d meant it, too. Even his drunken rambling couldn’t have been _that_ incoherent; Joss had understood him enough to harass him about it.

“Yeah,” Nathan agrees with a smirk before he pats John on the shoulder and turns away. “You also _kept_ it.”

…Well, that’s news to John and he _hates_ when something he did is news to him, _he’s never mixing liquors again._ He watches Nathan go feeling weirdly embarrassed that he’d been trying to talk to a guy who probably thought he was a clepto with a fetish. He doesn’t quite run back to the dorm, but when he gets there, he works up a sweat tearing the room apart.

Lionel only has to open the door to start complaining about the mess creeping into his side of the room. “Did a bomb go off in here? What the hell are you doing?” he looms over John as he grapples under the bed, “As in what the hell are you doing on _my fucking side_ of the room?”

Short answer is because Johns stuff is all over the floor _except_ for the pair of pants that has fallen behind his day bed. Stationary as it is, the only way to reach it is to jam his arm underneath from the floor in front of Lionel’s bed. “Pretty obvious, Lionel, I’m looking for something,” John answered, blowing dust out of his face. When he finally snags the pants, he sits up to find Lionel sneering at him.

“Congrats. You got a dirty pair of Dickies,” Lionel says. “Move it.”

John stays put just to be contrary, riffling through the pockets only to pull out a similarly dusted – _how?_ – but much more expensive bowtie. Even when he shakes it out, he notes that a slight smell accompanies the motion; he must’ve actually worn it at some point that night. Though that still raises the question of how he even _got_ it. He sighs.

“You know any dry cleaners around here?”

//

It’s seems like it’s going to be an endeavor to even find Harold again, so John winds up carrying around the (freshly dry-cleaned) bowtie and riding on hope. Nathan doesn’t come back to Harold’s tutorials that John notices – and he _is_ paying attention – so he doesn’t have anyone else to ask about speaking to Harold. He’s taken to spending an embarrassing amount of time wandering through popular study spots, chancing that he might catch a familiar face.

It doesn’t happen until he’s not actually thinking about it, but this encounter doesn’t go significantly better than the previous. Which, frankly, “not significantly better” is still _better_ , so he can roll with this.

He’s just finished lunch when he finally spots Harold, tutoring in the student center, and he stops walking before he reaches his line of sight. Harold is dressed as fetchingly prim as always, in the middle of what looks like a long-haul studying session. Or maybe tutoring, considering how frustrated the younger man with him looks while Harold speaks to him patiently. Checking his watch, John figures he’s got until the turn of the hour before Harold is gone again and he has to do something ridiculous to find him. When he watches Harold half-lift a Starbucks cup before lowering it again with an annoyed twist of the mouth, John chances making a break across the building.

The kid Harold is with does a double take with wide eyes when John approaches, face flashing flatteringly pink as he gazes up at John.

Harold turns looking first confused, then decidedly less impressed which… John must admit is probably at least a little justified.

John shakes the Starbucks cup at him, smiling. “Noticed you were out,” he says, putting it on the table by his hand.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Harold states coolly.

John doesn’t wince, the student cringing hard enough for both of them. “Well, then how about a complementary bowtie?” he says, holding it out, still folded neatly and wrapped in plastic.

The look on Harold’s face is remarkably contrite given the circumstances, a stark change from the iciness just moments before. He covers it with a look that is mildly reproachful, “Ah. Nathan has been meddling, I see.”

“ _You_ could’ve just told me,” John says, carefully ignoring the accusation. “I may be a bit of a trouble maker, but I’m not generally a thief.”

“Generally,” Harold parrots, but he does look a bit less tense.

The noise around them begins to pick up as it gets closer to the hour and John _really_ should get going, he’s barely passing biology. He doesn’t move, though.

“Now, unless you need help with _your_ calculus homework...” Harold begins, nodding pointedly towards his companion. “I do still have a session to conclude.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” the other man says and they must be at least casual friends because he completely ignores the look Harold shoots him.

“I _do_ , Leon,” Harold says haughtily.

John can imagine that’s not just Harold trying to send him away, but also an actual sense of professional pride. He finds something about that – as with most things he learns about Harold – incredibly becoming. “Well, since you haven’t expressly told me to take a hike,” John begins, “Can I assume you won’t abandon this spot just because I saw you here?”

Harold gives an already longsuffering sigh. “It’s a bit self-important to think I’d rearrange my entire schedule because of you, isn’t it?”

John brightens. “Is that a yes?”

Harold picks up the coffee, offering it back to John without looking at him or the at once entertained and starry-eyed look on Leon’s face. “Enjoy your coffee, Mr. Reese.”

//

As tentatively established, the next time John passes by that spot, he finds Harold immersed in his studies, though he makes John the second he enters the area. John smiles immediately, tickled when Harold doesn’t look actively annoyed by his presence. “Harold.” He sits a drink by his hand. “Sencha green.”

Though Harold tries to look as unimpressed as before, John can’t help but notice the surprise that lights his face. His mouth might even move towards a smile when he sees “ _Harold Bowtie”_ written on the cup. “It wouldn’t be very wise of me to accept drinks from strangers…” he replies, raising an eyebrow at John.

John shrugs, sitting in the presently vacant seat at the table. “You should be fine as long as you don’t go home with me,” he says flirtatiously, then when he just gets a dry look, “Tell me your last name and we won’t be strangers.”

Harold looks back to his laptop. “I believe telling me your first name precedes knowing my last,” he says after long enough that John had thought he was going to get ignored.

John blinks. “You don’t know my first name?” The flush on Harold’s cheeks is more endearing than it has any right to be.

“ _Well_.” Harold seems a little embarrassed, tone just north of sulkily accusing. “You all are so insistent on calling one another by your last names…”

John recalls then that the first time they met, he was well and truly wasted and probably didn’t start out the conversation with proper introductions. He doesn’t generally pay attention to which name people use on him, but the fact that his closest friends go around calling him by his last name has stumped Harold is amusing. It must show on his face, because Harold’s expression twists in annoyance.

“I guess that’s a good point,” John says, holding out his hand, trying not to smile too much when Harold takes it. “John Reese.”

“John Reese,” Harold repeats, nodding to himself. “Harold Finch.”

“Finch,” John repeats and it’s… fitting. He doesn’t know why, but it is, Harold Finch looks like his name. “Well, Finch, is a very thoughtfully purchased tea enough to convince you to give me your number?”

Harold sneers at him, in as much as someone like Harold sneers. “Just for that, I won’t make anything else easy,” he replies, taking a rebellious sip of his drink.

“Harold,” John sings, “If you make it difficult, that just means I’ll have to stare more.”

There’s a moment when John thinks the joke went a little too far, when Harold pauses, both eyebrows raising. “I imagine so,” he agrees, “Perhaps you’ll learn a lesson in subtlety in the time being.”

Teasing. Harold Finch is teasing him.

“My subtlety is not why you find me charming,” John replies, giddy.

Harold doesn’t acknowledge that with a response, so John takes his silence as agreement.

//

“Your not-so-secret admirer seems nice,” Nathan says, because he’s a busybody and an enabler.

Harold graces him with a tired look. “Don’t encourage him, he’s quite inspired enough.” John has been popping in periodically around Harold’s tutoring sessions ever since, as he puts it, Harold neglected to tell him to _‘take a hike_ ’.

Nathan crosses his leg, sitting back in his chair as he regards Harold evenly. “You sound less than enthused.”

Harold gives him a bland look. “I can’t imagine why I would be particularly _‘enthused’_ by this turn of events.”

“Because a handsome boy is completely smitten with you,” Nathan suggests absently, “Let’s not pretend you don’t find him at least _charming_.”

“His charm or lack thereof is not in question,” Harold replies cryptically. He doesn’t think he puts undue emphasis on any of those words, but Nathan’s face quirks somewhere between concern and confusion at whatever it is he hears.

“Ok then, clue me in,” he says, “He’s charming, _but_...”

Harold considers attempting to make Nathan drop the issue, but Nathan is normally a determined sort of guy. Especially when he’s got that earnest look in his eyes. His concern and curiosity have overlapped enough that he has no intention of ignoring the stiff set of his friend’s shoulders, the intentional aloofness on his face.

“ _But,”_ Harold picks up, “what would he even want with me?” He sounds appropriately strict, not petulant like he feared it might’ve come across.

Still, Nathan’s eyebrows raise. “Well, I mean, I’m straight, but if you really want me to paint a picture, I—”

“ _That is not_ —” Harold flushes brightly and Nathan would smile except for how his friend looks genuinely distressed. “Even if he _actually does_ have inclinations towards men—”

“ _Christ_ , Harold,” Nathan half laughs at the phrasing.

“There’s nothing to indicate he, nor anyone _like_ him, would be interested in me,” Harold continues without pause, “I’m not interested in being the-the _punchline_ of a reddit post.”

It’s a thought that has occurred to him more than he would like to admit. He _does_ like John, quite a bit in fact; he can admit that, if nothing else, John seems to be a genuine sort of man. But it’s not hard to recall that the worst of Harold’s school-age experiences with cruelty started with him liking someone. And, no, John’s laughter – nor the laughter of his friends, in all fairness – has never come across as unfairly mean-spirited, but—

“Seriously?” Nathan replies skeptically, then lets out a sound that’s a touch too gentle to be a scoff. “He doesn’t seem _nearly_ malicious enough for this to be an elaborate prank. Gimme a break, Harold, you don’t even believe that.”

“Being unlikely doesn’t necessarily make something untrue,” Harold replies, but it’s rehearsed and judging by Nathan’s face he can tell. “I don’t _know_ him.”

“Never will if you keep stringing him along,” Nathan says, but then scratches his head with his pen, “Then again, the guy seems pretty persistent. Maybe he’ll wait you out…”

Harold has considered this, too, and is caught between the fear and hope that John will get bored of him and let him alone.

Nathan glances at Harold’s computer, one of them anyway. “Did you ask…?”

They haven’t really decided on what to call their little project.

Harold’s webcam is covered at the moment, but he still instinctively looks to it. “I’m not asking it anything until I’m sure it understands privacy, even from me,” he says, which is not wrong. He also doesn’t want to afford himself any undue advantages over John, who, he supposes, _could_ be a completely well-intended admirer. They’re threading a thin line here. Privacy is a myth, but there still have to be lines somewhere.

“So the old fashioned way it is,” Nathan says, patting the monitor affectionately. “Though I do wonder what his Tinder profile looks like. Maybe he has a nerd fetish.”

“Honestly!” Harold snaps, embarrassed for all involved parties as he turns back to his school laptop.

Nathan laughs companionably and pats Harold’s shoulder. “Give him a chance,” he says, “He looks like a good paperback romance if nothing else, live a little.”

//

When John finds out Harold is a computer science major, it’s almost annoyingly fitting. It doesn’t take much to imagine Harold with his stuffy attire and thick glasses in an office building explaining how the Wi-Fi works. Or owning the whole damn company, actually. It also hadn’t taken much doing to figure out. Especially since Leon is apt to run off at the mouth at the littlest prompting, even if it was a futile effort to try and get him to stay on subject for more than a few seconds at a time. Leon was nice enough, though, so it was a small price to pay.

At any rate, John finding himself in an intro to coding class, wonderfully lost in the professor’s explanation of the transition of ASCII values into UTF-8, is definitely a high point of his week. As is the way Harold keeps shooting glances in his direction whenever he speaks, repeating things in something closer to human language.

When the professor ends the lecture early to return graded papers, Harold passes out his stack before stopping to look down at John. “I take it you enjoyed the lecture?”

John smiles up at him, chin resting admiringly in his palm. He hardly pays any mind to the other students who are packing up slow just to be nosy. And he can’t blame them, Harold is interesting. “It was a little over my head,” he admits, “but you’re a computer science major, of course you’re that smart.”

Harold gives him a tiny if indulgent smile. “Very good deduction, Mr. Reese,” he praises, “I have no doubt I’ll soon find you on my doorstep.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Is that an accusation of stalking or an invitation?” he asks demurely. He’s honestly never tried to figure out where Harold lives. He knows that crosses the territory of creepy by a pretty wide margin.

Harold’s smile twists wryly. “You really can’t help yourself can you?”

John shrugs innocently. “Tell me to take a hike and I will,” he says and when Harold just sighs, shaking his head amusedly, John glances up at the board. “Tell you what. How about a challenge?”

“Oh? Of what nature?”

“Give me your phone number,” John replies cheekily.

Harold looks at him for a long moment, as though trying to judge if he’s making fun. John is not; for all the casualness in his posture, his heart is thudding in his chest. He remembers his dad— _his dad?_ One of them, _someone’s_ dad saying he should never date a woman who doesn’t scare at least _some_ of the shit out of him. Back then, John couldn’t imagine a girl really scaring him, but that phrase feels about right when he sees the set of Harold’s shoulders straighten, determined not fearful. “That’s not much of a challenge, now is it?”

“It will be if you make me work for it,” John points out.

Harold huffs. “What would you do with my phone number, Mr. Reese?”

John eyes him. “It’s generally used for contacting people, Finch.”

“It seems like we’re in contact quite often.”

“I think you can already imagine I’m prone to indulgence.” That’s not expressly true, but everyone has their vices. One of John’s just happens to be smart men in fancy ties.

This old building actually has a bell that rings on the hour, spawning a rise of muted shuffling and scraping chairs echoing down the halls. Neither of them move, too preoccupied with one another.

“And you’re content to work for it?” John just smiles at that and Harold’s lips quirk, nearly rolling his eyes. “I’ll have to think on it.”

“Then I’ll have to come back,” John replies easily, getting to his feet.

So John does, bright and relatively early the next class, placing a cup of tea by Harold’s hand and getting a piece of paper in return. “ _Call me_ ,” it reads, followed by a long string of grouped numbers, none the right length for a phone number.

Harold’s face almost passes for unmoved, but for the teasing glint in his eyes when he turns back to the projection screen. “Happy hunting, Mr. Reese.”

 John gives a little salute with the paper.  “Sure is, Finch.”

//

“You’re teasing him,” Grace says over Skype that night after Harold spins the tale.

Harold doesn’t exactly have a large friend group, but it still feels a little odd that all his friends know about this weirdly romantic plot twist in his life. Grace, at least, hadn’t said it with the same mildly chastising tone Arthur had used when he accused Harold of leading John on. Harold _isn’t_ , not exactly, and Grace knows that. She understands him a bit better than that, he believes.

“He invited the teasing,” Harold replies, glancing away from her face to look up at the camera. “I think he’s a bit of a glutton for punishment.”

“And you’re encouraging it!” Grace laughs shaking her head. “You’ve gotten mean in your old age, Harold.”

“Yet you are still just as flattering,” he responds smoothly, then gestures to the wall behind her, “The new painting is beautiful, by the way.”

Grace going to art school in Italy had been a bit of a foundation rocker as far as Harold’s Big Life Plan was concerned, but he’d been happy for her. He’s still happy for her, especially every time he gets to speak to her again, even if she often uses the opportunity to rib him.

“That was not your best attempt at distraction,” Grace chastises him, taking a sip of coffee. “Come on, tell me! What’s going on with you two?”

“I believe we’re what the kids call ‘ _just having fun_ ’,” Harold answers drily.

“Mm-hm,” Grace replies, smiling. “You and your ‘ _admittedly quite handsome_ ’ new fan?”

“I’m serious,” Harold says neutrally, and not at all defensively. “I don’t know if _I’m_ actually interested, let alone if _he’s_ actually interested.” He starts typing nonsense on his computer just to give his hands something to do.

“Ok, Harold,” Grace sings, but it sounds a lot like “ _Yeah, sure, buddy,_ ” but she only smiles when he gives her a look. “Your way of flirting is ridiculously appropriate for you. The fact that he’s into it must mean he’s a pretty interesting guy. Maybe he’s inspired by your quirkiness”

“It’s getting a little late for you to start conspiracy theorizing,” Harold asks.

Grace hums. “Then I’ll just have to call Nathan tomorrow, I’m sure he’ll hear me out.”

Harold very nearly regrets introducing the two of them, thick as thieves and just as tricky. “I’m changing his number.” That gets him a laugh.

“Like that would stop me,” Grace says.

Harold just hums at her, eyebrow arched though his smile is gentle. “Same time next week?”

“Of course,” she replies, then adds on, “I want to meet him before you get engaged!”

“ _Good night, Grace_.”

She blows a raspberry that makes her hair fly out of her face, before giving him a sweet smile, waving lazily. “ _Ciao, Harold._ ”

//

John should’ve known it would be something complicated.

Harold gave him the number days ago, but John still hasn’t worked out how to get the digits shortened to a phone number. The “ _Call me_ ” written in Harold’s neat script feels more and more teasing by the day. It’d feel like cheating to ask for help, and he’s a little too proud to ask for a hint in the first of what will probably be other puzzles in his friendship with Harold Finch, so he’s stewing. Shaw rolls her eyes every time she sees him with the paper.

“Dumb way to flirt,” she says, sitting down beside him in class. The professor starts talking before John can do more than make a face at her. The paper is tucked under his spiral, Harold’s message and the first number string sticking out the top. John would like to think he’s not just getting lucky figuring out Harold, but when he takes out his textbook so he can at least _look_ like he’s paying attention, by chance, something starts to click. He’s sitting there, staring at the book in his hand, trying to figure out what’s caught his attention, right on the edge of his awareness. The spine of the book and the first string of numbers and—

_Call me._

“It’s a call number,” John blurts excitedly, then snaps his mouth shut when Shaw stomps on his foot. He just barely manages to scrap together the answer the professor assumed he’d been trying to give. It takes all of his self-control and pre-military training to keep from buzzing out of his seat. The end of class marks the most excited John has ever been to make his way to the library. Finding the actual book is a bigger production than it should be for a college student, but John manages and sits on the floor in the stacks to look at it. He feels a little silly for expecting there to be a note stuck inside of it, but he still flips through the detailed bird graphics a few times before accepting that he’s got more work to do.

John has never found himself this fascinated by someone else’s intelligence, not beyond momentary awareness of it. Though, something about the idea of Harold sitting at his desk piecing together a puzzle for him to solve – investing that time and intelligence on John – has him biting back a smile the whole way back to his dorm.

Lionel comes back from class to find him sitting at his desk, trying to solve it.

“Well shit, she really must be something if she’s got _you_ studying,” Lionel comments, tossing his bag on the bed.

John smiles down at his work. “Well, _he’s_ a comsci major. I have to study to keep up,” he replies lightly, all false flippancy.

For all the shit he gives Lionel, he does actually like him and – _the pause behind him is sudden and sets John’s hair on end_ – he wants to _keep_ liking him. He only has a few seconds to think Lionel might be afraid enough of him to leave without making John hurt him, but then he’s standing right at John’s shoulder, leaning over the desk.

John looks up evenly, tense.

Lionel isn’t quite smiling, but that seems intentional when he mutters, “Well, Mr. Vocabulary must really be something, willing to get it on with your happy mug.”

John doesn’t think he lets the relief wash over his face, but Lionel relaxes at the same time he does. Neither one of them has ever had very many friends, least of all friends they actively liked. They aren’t set to lose each other.

“Look at this guy, fucking heartbreaker,” Lionel sneers, then flushes angrily when John raises his eyebrows. “You’re not my type, _asshole._ Learn to take a compliment you sorry sack of—”

John doesn’t typically laugh in people’s faces, but the look in his eyes is generally enough to get the message across. He counts it as fair when Lionel laughs at the amount of wrong numbers he’s already called today. It’s well past dark when he thinks he’s got the right number. Like 90% sure. He’s also 90% sure he could pass a test on ciphers of that ever comes up and has a _great_ idea for a term paper.

Harold is still new enough to him that John honestly couldn’t guess if he is the old-soul type to go to bed at nine or the high-strung techie type that’s up at all hours of the night. He figures sending a text is an acceptable way to find out.

John takes a picture of _Birds of North America_ on his lap, feeling clever when he opens it to the page introducing the Fringillidae family. Then he retakes it because his bed is unmade and then again because his legs are bare which feels a little too familiar. By the time he sends it, anticipation is turning restlessly in his chest. The stakes on this one text message feel extremely high because he’s genuinely sweet on Harold. He wants to talk to him, just like this, when it’s late and quiet and he can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s pretty early for a Friday, but laid out watching Lionel play GTA, John is half considering sleep when his phone pings at him and he moves embarrassingly quickly to grab it. Lionel snorts from across the room and John would throw something at him if he wasn’t busy unlocking his phone.

_Media Content in this message_ , his phone informs him. It opens up to a series of colorful birds that John just so happens to recognize as the mural on the wall of the second floor offices in the student center. “ _Well done, Mr. Reese._ ”

John is so flustered by the complement he doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing until he asks, “ _Is that an invitation?_ ” He isn’t fool enough to expect an instant answer, but still sits up a staring at his phone, fretting about whether or not he’s overstepped until it pings again.

“ _If you really care to watch me work on my computational analysis homework, I will not dissuade you._ ”

Well, as long as Harold won’t dissuade him…

Lionel looks away from the TV when John stands up to shove his feet into his shoes and snag his backpack. “One text and he’s calling for a midnight special? You oughta be teaching classes.”

“Figure I’ll give you a free preview for breaking your heart, Fusco,” John replies, shuts the door before Lionel’s shoe can connect with his back.

The student center is not completely dead at this time of night, just pleasantly empty. He can hear some people playing a table top game downstairs, an assortment of other people studying quietly on this floor. John doesn’t pay them too much mind as he comes off the landing into the study area, easily locating Finch typing quickly while alternating between looking at his computer, his phone, and an intimidatingly dense text book. Half of the table, though, has obviously been cleared politely for John.

“So Finch,” John says as he takes his place, smiling when Harold’s face immediately eases. “Do you actually like birds or was this just a clever red herring?”

“I’ll have you know,” Harold begins, “bird watching has been a hobby passed down through the Finch family for generations.”

“Really?” John replies, “Freely given information, I’m skeptical.”

Harold’s smile is secretive but sincere, before he adjusts his glasses and turns back to his computer. “Well, feel free to test me at a later date.”

“Consider it a date,” John agrees, turning to pull out his own work before he can see the startled look on Harold’s face as he huffs, amused.

John has never been one to spend a Friday night studying, but if he can steal bits of conversation from Harold in the meanwhile, he’ll at least pretend to spend some time focused on his classical civilizations homework.

Harold even lets John walk him back to his apartment building.

//

John turns out to be quite insufferable; charming and lovely, yes, but an entirely absurd young man.

To be clear, Harold is certain if he ever even implied John was overbearing, he would pull back immediately. But, as his friends are overjoyed to point out, Harold is alarmingly taken with John already. Even if he’s also convinced that John is sending him a picture of every bird he sees. It starts out as a joke – “ _Do you know her?_ ” “ _Your wit never ceases to amaze_ ” – then turns into somewhat of a challenge. John has severely underestimated the number of birds Harold can name on sight and by their calls, Harold is batting a thousand.

When John changes his text tone to bird song, Harold (and everyone else) finds this horrendously embarrassing on John’s behalf. Regardless, John gets entirely too much joy out of the exasperation on Harold’s face to change it. And really, Harold can’t help but find it… well, _sweet_ he guesses. He has neglected to change his own phone alerts, but that doesn’t mean he can help the way his face lights when he gets notifications from John.

“You are well and truly smitten,” Zoe points out gleefully, twirling her pen and completely ignoring the paper she’s supposed to be writing. “Johnny Boy actually found a keeper.”

Harold doesn’t give her the satisfaction of snapping his attention back to his homework, but he does lock his phone before she can see what made him smile to begin with. (John should really know better than to try and take pictures of geese that closely.) He just shakes his head, “It’s not odd for friends to make each other smile, Ms. Morgan.”

Zoe doesn’t look any more convinced of that than his other friends had, alarming considering she’s one of the newest. And that she was John’s friend first.

Harold has never really struggled to make friends, but he still hasn’t always been best at finding them. It makes sense, then, that the majority of his friend group consists of extroverts that found him and decided to keep him. Zoe had taken one look at the way John looked at him and turned on a megawatt smile that made Harold feel slightly caught out for no reason at all. She was perfectly nice to him and made for excellent company, he found, though it’s somewhat in the manner of a verbal sparring partner. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when she introduced herself as a political science major while carrying multiple upper division psych text books.

It took him all of about a solid five minute conversation with her to realize they were delightfully juxtaposed. Harold likes being largely unknown and Zoe likes knowing exactly everything about everyone. Neither she nor John seems like they intend to give up on getting to the bottom of Harold Finch, albeit for different reasons and with different levels of tact. Usually.

“He talks about you all the time, you know,” she begins, innocently turning back to her laptop.

That’s bait. Harold’s not rising to it. “He _is_ the talkative sort.”

Zoe looks up at that. “Most people would say he isn’t.”

Harold pauses at that, recalls that they largely became friends because Harold misjudged John’s silence enough to speak to him. He can’t imagine himself describing John as _shy_ , but he also hasn’t seen him around many people. Even at the house party, he’d been outside alone with Joss. “Most people don’t know him, I imagine,” he says carefully.

Zoe’s smile reminds him of Nathan sometimes, honest and devious all at once. He has the vague thought that they would be dangerously fond of one another. “He’s a great friend, Harold,” she says, “He just hasn’t had many.”

Something about her tone snags on Harold’s attention. The lightness was intentional, but so was the fact that it wasn’t genuine sounding. Zoe could make a kick in the face sound pleasant if she really set her mind to it, but now her tone is setting off alarm bells. When she just raises an eyebrow at him, both of his raise in surprise. “Is this…?” he gapes for a moment, “I’m sorry, am I getting the _shovel talk_?”

The bright laugh he gets at that _is_ genuine, her smile softening around the edges. “No, John’s a big boy, he can take care of himself,” she says. “I just want to toss in my two cents.”

“And that would be?” Harold asks, eyeing her warily.

Zoe shrugs. “I wouldn’t get hung up on figuring out what John wants from you. I think he’d be thrilled for you to stick around in any way you get stuck on him,” she says, before actually turning back to her work. “Frankly, so would I.”

That knowledge sits warmly on Harold for a moment, even as he is getting quite tired of people sticking their noses in his (potential) love life. He surely hasn’t given any indication that he’s disquieted by John’s attention at this point, has he? They speak regularly, they study together; Harold doesn’t find himself uncomfortable around John’s friends. Then again, for all his overt flirtatiousness, John has yet to actually ask for more than his phone number and time. Does Harold want more than that? Did he somehow imply he expressly _doesn’t_?

“…I’ll bear that in mind,” he replies belatedly. “Thank you, Zoe.”

Zoe just hums, but Harold is beginning to think she may have genuinely said all this for _his_ sake, not necessarily just as John’s friend.

It – all of it – bears considering, he admits privately.

So he considers it.

//

Joss’ uniform is always immaculate.

Even though John took great pride in being in top shape whenever he put on his uniform for lineup, there’s something different about Joss. A lot of them did this for the scholarship it promised, but Joss never looks like she did. John and Shaw both respect what they’re doing, the uniform they wear, but Joss carries herself with something like genuine honor. It shows.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she snaps when she gets close enough.

He gives her a serene smile when Shaw mutters, “Don’t tell him that, he’ll actually take one.”

Veteran’s Day had arrived a lot faster than John had anticipated, with so many other things to occupy his time, but he was spotless, on time, and in place for the parade. He didn’t miss a single step when presenting the colors; he found he was deeply proud of all of these things. Still, it’s something of a relief when they’re given time to break rank between events, milling about the inside of the stadium with the observers. Among them are Joss’ parents who come at the mention of pictures like it’d been their names. John and Shaw’s names apparently come up often enough that her parents grin at them like long lost cousins and rope them into a brief bout of picture-taking and parental nosiness.

Even though Shaw looks ready to rattle out of her skin, John winds up getting freed first when Joss’ father steps up to him. “Go on, son,” he says in a booming voice he probably genuinely thinks is conspiratorial; he winks and everything. John’s just about to misread that and put his foot in his mouth when he continues, “Don’t let us keep you from your _friend_.”

“Friend?” John says, because Lionel isn’t here, couldn’t be assed to get out of bed. When Mr. Carter kicks his chin out to the side and John turns, his heart thumps in his chest.

Harold tries valiantly to look like he hadn’t gotten made staring, but the unusual pink on his cheeks is telling. John had told Harold about the event because that was the thing to do, not because he’d actually thought he’d show up. The fact that he’s here has brightened his day and – if Shaw and Joss’ sudden gagging was anything to go by – it’s obvious.

“You got _fifteen_ , John,” Joss warns, “I’m _not_ covering for you.”

“I’m sure he’s quick,” Shaw mumbles, making Joss shoot her a glare.

John bids them farewell like a civilized person before making his way over to Harold. The way Harold looks up at him, openly entranced, has him resisting the impulse to straighten up any further lest he snap. “Finch.”

“Mr. Reese,” Harold replies. “An excellent display.”

“Something about a man in uniform?” John teases, expecting and pleased by Harold’s familiarly annoyed look. “Thanks, Harold.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Harold replies, then in an uncharacteristic gesture of nerves, he rocks back on his heels and lowers his gaze. “Speaking of which,” he continues, then makes a face like he hadn’t meant to, “I was wondering if I could have some of your time? Not. Not to study, I mean. Just to... see you.”

John’s pretty sure Harold is going to give him breathing problems and he hasn’t even expressly said this is a _date._ The fact that he wants to see John at all has him through the roof. He’s actually contemplating how much trouble he’d be in if he just ditched the rest of his assignment when Harold catches him glancing at the clock. He winces when Harold stiffens. “We’re not actually finished yet,” he explains, “There’s a separate presentation for veteran alums only.”

“I see,” Harold replies diplomatically, but he looks remotely embarrassed.

“I’d like to see you later though,” John rushes to say before Harold can excuse himself, because he could see that coming a mile away. “It ends at five, if you’re free then?”

Harold’s face lightens at once, openly in a way John feels quite privileged to see and have caused. “Of course. Let me know when you’ve finished and…” he half turns away, “Perhaps we can get dinner.”

John’s smile is small, but he feels like he’s glowing when Harold returns it. “I’d like that, Harold.”

//

Harold finds himself giddy and a touch anxious as he leaves the stadium.

Of course, he can find multiple things to do with his Sunday afternoon, but the thought that he’s going to end his day having dinner with John is delightfully distracting. Perhaps he can lose himself in running simulations with The Machine. He and Nathan have been discussing adding other—

“I didn’t take you for a fetishist.”

Harold tries not to startle when Root falls into step beside him, but the way she smiles at him says he probably didn’t succeed. “Beg your pardon?” he says blandly.

He doesn’t like acknowledging when she gets under his skin, because she takes such a vested interest in trying. Though he admires her intelligence and they’ve worked on a number of projects, academic and otherwise, he still finds he’s a little hard pressed to call her a friend. She doesn’t seem to like him nearly as much as she likes picking at him, not that she distinguishes between the two things. Yet, still, he frequently finds himself in her presence.

Root nods to the stadium behind them. “That puppy in uniform that’s been following you around,” she says. “If I didn’t know better I’d almost think you’re lovesick, too.”

Harold knows he doesn’t answer quickly enough because her eyes brighten. “Whether I am or not is no particular concern of yours,” he answers, tellingly enough, he knows. “Did you finish building the spider project in Programing?”

“Days ago, Harry, give me some credit,” she replies, “I’m more interested in that secret project of yours.”

Oh, and that. One stray string of code on a napkin and she’d latched on and never let go. The Machine is a private project for a reason, having Root on the backend of it seems more than a little terrifying. There’s a part of him that knows, just _knows_ she’s going to wind up with her hands in it, but not yet. Not while it’s still a baby. Things have to be better in place before he’s willing to bring on any other engineers, especially those of Root’s level.

“Secrets are revealed in time, Ms. Groves.”

Root stops walking at that, head tipped in interest. “Harry, I’m certain I never told you that name.”

“Didn’t you?” Harold replies, but continues on without her.

The Machine proves an effective distraction in its updates and the charmingly disjointed nature of its speech, until John texts him a picture of a bird out the window of his dorm.

“ _Grackle, adolescent,_ ” Harold replies. “ _I take it you’re done for the evening?_ ”

“ _I am_ ,” John texts back moments later, “ _Still on for dinner?_ ”

Harold very much is.

They meet on campus, the most central location to their rooms and anywhere they could want to eat. John is out of uniform, but thought ahead to put on a jacket and button down. Still, the happiness on his face steals most of Harold’s attention as he approaches. It’s been a long time for both of them since they’ve been quite this excited to go out for dinner, but then again, it’s been quite a long time since either of them have been on a date. Harold hadn’t called it that when he asked, but who is he kidding, really? Surely, not himself. And if the boyish smile on John’s face says anything, not John either.

“You are insufferable,” Harold tells him.

John shrugs. “I’m beginning to think you like it,” he replies, casually offering Harold his hand.

It’s probably indicative of their whole relationship that, though Harold gives him a less than amused look, he doesn’t hesitate to take his hand.

“How do you feel about diner food?”

//

John and Harold are still learning each other, piece by piece, but somehow manage to do it while coming off like an old couple. There is a lot of quiet between them, but it’s a good quiet, the kind that settles them when university has them rattling. And as with most old couples, their new friends start feeling like old friends quite quickly.

Mostly.

…To be clear, John isn’t threatened by Root.

She’s been creeping steadily further into his awareness, first as an acquaintance of Harold’s, then as an acquaintance of Shaw’s, and then a begrudged _friend_ of Shaw’s. Shaw doesn’t say that in as many words, but when someone has bridged the territory of Shaw’s numbness towards most people, it’s not hard to tell, especially not for John.

For instance, when Root finally speaks to John, she does it by appearing rather suddenly behind Shaw and – in an impressive feat of athleticism on her part – only narrowly avoids getting her jaw broken.

“What the _fuck?_ What’d I say about that!?” Shaw snaps as she spins around, but does not continue to fight her, doesn’t shove her away.

Root gives her a flirtatious smile, her hand light on Shaw’s shoulder. “With your mouth or your eyes, sweetie?” she says, eyes flickering over to John like an afterthought. “Hi, John.”

Root doesn’t scare him.

There’s just something about her that makes it seem like she _should_ and that pisses him off a little. So of course, he smiles.

“Root. Interesting name.”

Root matches his smile, empty for empty. “Much less common than John, isn’t it?”

“Ok…” Shaw cuts in, eyeing them carefully. “What the fuck is going on here?”

John would like to know.

“Just trying to figure out what’s so special about John, here,” Root says, “Harold is a genius and somehow a lug has got all his attention.”

“Must be my sunny disposition,” John replies blandly, simultaneously insulted at being dismissed as a grunt and thrilled to know he has so obviously enamored himself to Harold.

Root just eyes him. “He must be planning something big to involve you.”

John doesn’t reply, mostly to make her squirm even knowing good and well it won’t work. Harold hasn’t mentioned any project that would be relevant to John in any way other than that he likes to listen to Harold talk about the things he loves. He hasn’t even taken John up on the interactive bird identifying app, though his eye roll hadn’t exactly been a no.

Still, Root’s comment does sort of stick with John. He thinks about the long lines of code on Harold’s computer that mean exactly nothing to him, but that Harold feels the need to minimize when any other people come around. The one time Root has showed up, he’d closed the entire program and swapped to a desktop that was much busier looking, but that John would guess has nothing he’s worked on in months. It’s curious, but John guesses it makes sense Harold wouldn’t be worried about him. He’s computer literate enough to trudge through the modern world, but not to be of any real use to Harold, let alone to be a threat.

So it comes as a surprise when Harold _does_ involve him, one late night before winter break. John wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Harold had closed his laptop, rather finally, and turned to face him. “I would like to show you something,” he says.

“You can show me anything you like,” John replies and it’s only partly a come-on. Harold accepts his flirtatious nature with affection and amusement, but nothing more and John doesn’t push the issue. He smiles when he just gets A Look.

“Up for a walk?” Harold asks.

“Can I know where we’re going?” John replies, like he isn’t already packing his bag.

As it turns out, they’re going to the technology building.

John hasn’t been in here since the freshman tour days, only pays attention to it when he’s meeting Harold outside. After class hours, you have to be on an approved list to even get inside, but John still gets the feeling that the door Harold leads him to is not generally accessible to students. The light pings green and John hears it unlock before Harold can even lift his ID again.

“VIP,” John says impressed.

Harold looks up at him briefly, then back to the door. “Hardly. The project I’m working on has afforded me… certain perks.”

“The project that’s got Root about to unravel because you won’t involve her?” John arches an eyebrow at the startled and then annoyed look on Harold’s face.

“I’d have to trust her a bit more to involve her,” Harold says and shakes his head when John visibly brightens and the insinuation that he’s a Trusted Party. He starts ahead when John opens the door for him. “It’s still a prototype, but… it’s a very powerful prototype.”

“A baby with muscle,” John guesses, correctly judging by the way Harold looks at him. He wouldn’t hand that over to Root, either. “What does it do?”

Harold winces. “Surveillance and classification.”

Oh, John _definitely_ wouldn’t trust Root with that. The thought makes his skin crawl a little.

“Ok…” he says carefully, “What’s it surveilling?”

The short answer being “everything” is as terrifying just as it is impressive.

The Machine grew over the years from one laptop in Harold’s bedroom, to having its own section in the server room of the technology building, self-maintaining the firewalls and encryption data it hides behind. On a campus the size of a state university, six degrees of separation sounds like more than enough to reach everyone on the planet let alone in the country. The idea that he’s standing in the middle of the one thing in the world that knows everyone personally, well enough to predict their lives at length, is more than a little humbling.

The computer screen that types out _> HELLO, JOHN_ when he walks by is also more than a little humanizing, if disorienting.

“Hello,” John replies to the open air, bemused. He’d think this is all a joke, but Harold is gazing around with pride far too genuine to be faked.

“Nathan and I have been working on it since high school, a Machine that could predict crimes before they happen. Back then it wasn’t able to reliably work on itself, but it’s grown so much,” he says, fondness glowing all over his face. “It still can’t _do_ much, not on it’s own, but it knows nearly anything you’d care to ask about anyone at all.”

John can’t help it. “Did you ask it about me?”

“No,” Harold confesses like he’s glad to let it out. He looks nervous when he faces John completely to continue, “I wanted you to tell me.”

John feels that confession like a gentle explosion in his chest.

“Would it be weird for me to kiss you in front of your child?” he asks.

Harold goes flush immediately, but his mouth visibly fights between his urge to frown on principal and smile openly. “It’s not _really_ a child,” he admonishes, then adds, “Though, I imagine it already predicted you meant to and…” His blush deepens, “It can avert its gaze if it so pleases.”

John takes those words to heart, moving so he’s standing in Harold’s space, sharing his warmth. “And what would please you?”

Really, there should probably be a word specifically dedicated to the tingling warmth that takes over when Harold Finch reaches out for John Reese. Maybe another similar word for how all it takes is Harold’s fingertips on his jaw, the slightest of pressure, for John to lean down to kiss his smile, so happy it nearly hurts his chest.

However, John doesn’t think much about the words, content with just experiencing the feeling itself.

//

Harold doesn’t ask John to help, not right away. There are conversations about the Machine, what it’s learning to do, what it’s telling him. Occasionally, even John will find himself smiling up at cameras that waggle at him in a robotic wave. He’s involved, but not in any mission critical way; he’s friends with an AI and its father. It’s later into their schooling, when John is already thinking about his upcoming stint in the military to pay off his scholarship, that Harold brings it up.

“I know I could sell it, in a manner of speaking, to the government if nobody else,” he says unprompted, watching strings of code go by faster than John can track, even after his time with Harold. “And I know that would do a lot of good. It’s on its way to having the capacity to anticipate terroristic plots in time to prevent them. That is more than a noble feat, but…”

John guesses where Harold is going with this. “They’d have bigger fish to fry than a bar fight about to turn deadly in the Ass Crack of Nowhere.” Though Harold’s mouth twists at the vulgar wording, he nods his agreement. Then, John thinks of the subdued amusement on Harold’s face whenever anyone – _see: Nathan and John_ – refer to the Machine as his child. “You’d never cut it off from you, would you?”

Harold looks at him for a long moment. “Nathan has suggested that I not. I haven’t as of yet,” he says slowly.

Something about the way Harold’s face has tensed lets John know everything he needs to about that conversation. Nathan had suggested it and Harold had shot it down – repeatedly – but hadn’t had the heart to lock himself out completely. John considered his words for a moment. “You taught it not to reveal things unless necessary,” John begins carefully, “to not get involved unless absolutely necessary?”

“Yes.” Harold agrees haltingly, “Well— _yes_. But—”

“Well, if the government decides someone is irrelevant to the big picture,” John cuts in gently, a hand on Harold’s, “I think you’d feel better knowing someone was listening and willing to help.” It’s an offer, of course, and Harold knows it. John is a _hero’s_ son, he was born ready to jump into the good fight.

For a long time, Harold just looks at their hands and John gives him that time in silence. “We’d need practice,” he says eventually, turning his palm to John’s.

“Yeah,” John agrees, lifting his hand to kiss his fingers. “We’d also need a _team_.”

//

After Nathan – who doesn’t need convincing, patting John’s shoulder chummily, “ _I knew I liked you for a reason_ ” – Zoe is the easiest sell. She doesn’t ask questions as Harold explains, doesn’t look like she disbelieves him either, though her eyebrow edges up at the end. When The Machine texts her something neither of them read, the other eyebrow slides up as well. John can tell she’s onboard before she even looks at him.

“A Scooby and the Gang remix sounds fun,” she says with a wink, “Every group needs a Daphne, I suppose.”

John smiles back. “Guess that makes Fusco, Scooby.”

Joss and Lionel are a united front of skepticism, but they share a look that communicates a lot. John watches this with amusement, because it will basically boil down to Joss making a choice and Lionel complaining either way. They eventually come around, cautiously agreeing to be on standby, curious and invested in spite of themselves.

Root is an issue Harold is carefully side stepping for the time being, which means he hesitates at Shaw as well. John doesn’t like it, but one thing he and Shaw have gotten good at is not asking each other questions they know they can’t answer.

“We good?” she asks, the hickey – Root’s, almost certainly – on her neck standing out from the slouched collar of her night shirt, defiant and a total non-issue.

“We’re good,” John says and means it, lets her in. They play Gang Beasts on his bed for hours and John doesn’t think about telling her, but also can’t wait.

Harold also hesitates at Leon.

Not because Leon wouldn’t be willing and useful, though. In the time that Harold and John have grown on each other, they’ve all grown in general.

Leon could rival Zoe in the amount of people he knows around the city, though he hasn’t quite honed the ability to make them _like_ him – or fear him – the way she has. He has gone from chatty to fast talking, learning to spin tales and name drop to weasel his way out of tight spots. Which means, of course, he still has the tendency to get himself _into_ tight spots, some of which require more than a silver tongue – and really, Leon’s somewhere in the realm of _bronze_ – to sort out.

In short, Leon needs an annoying amount of rescuing at the beginning of Harold and John’s practice run with The Machine. They wind up getting sent to rescue Leon pretty regularly. John has the thought, more than once, that he should leave Leon to his own devices to see if he’ll sink or swim when it comes down to it. He tosses it aside pretty quickly, though, because Leon is _John’s_ , too – though exactly how that came about is unclear on all accounts – and John isn’t going to let him get hurt too badly. Even if it’s a little unnerving how Leon is staring at him with drunken awe.

“You have, like, scary good timing,” he slurs, squinting. “Are you a superhero or something?”

John gives him a hard look. “I’m _bleeding_ ,” he says slowly, because he is. Not badly, it doesn’t even really hurt, but saving stupid underclassmen from getting jumped at a frat party (for the third time) is not how John meant to spend his night.

Speaking of which, he pulls out his phone, one-handed, keeping Leon upright with the other. Harold answers on the second ring. “ _John!_ ”

“I got him, Harold, no alarm bells.”

Leon blinks, even more disoriented. “ _Harold_ sent you?”

“ _Yes, but do I need to get_ you _?_ ” Harold replies and John stops hustling Leon along. It only takes him a few moments to look around and find the blinking videophone booth in a nearby storefront.

John grins. “That’s very illegal.”

“ _So is assault,_ ” Harold snaps, but there’s no heat to it.

“I was only intervening,” he replies, adjusting Leon under his arm so he can hold the phone against his shoulder and wipe the blood off his nose. “And I’m fine.”

“Yeah, you are,” Leon agrees blearily.

John spares Leon a silly smile and an arched eyebrow. “How’re the other cases going?”

“ _Significantly less violently,_ ” Harold says, but doesn’t sound all that chastising. “ _Though, in regards to Professor Greer, Zoe is… quite formidable,_ ” he stumbles to say, which John takes to be the high-society version of ‘terrifying and willing to blackmail tenured board members’.

With Joss and Lionel having diffused a series of dorm pranks steadily escalating to actual attempts to harm just the week before, John is feeling good. The Machine is probably giving them baby steps, but still, they’ll take their wins where they can get them, they feel _good._

“ _The trial has been quite successful, for all intents and purposes,_ ” Harold gives words John’s feelings.

“Glad to hear it,” John replied. “I think Leon and I are going to call it a night.”

“ _Probably a wise choice_ ,” Harold replies. “ _Hungover or not, I expect him at tutoring tomorrow._ ”

John relays the message and Leon calls Harold a not entirely incorrect name that makes John chuckle. “I’ll see you tomorrow, too?”

“ _Of course, John. Until then._ ”

The journey back to central campus is largely uneventful, peppered with Leon stumbling slightly, catching himself on John’s shirt. He’s babbling like he does when he’s nervous, barely coherent strings of conversation that John barely has to contribute to, that suddenly go quiet when Leon’s dorm comes into view.

“So.” he says shortly, “you knew I was gonna get jumped.”

“Had a hunch,” John replies, though it wasn’t a question. He only misses half a step when Leon suddenly leans into him, looking offended and sleepy. His chin is probably going to bruise in the morning.

“Yeah, well, next time tell your hunch to tell _me_ before I start talking,” Leon grumbles, jabbing John’s chest with his access card.

“Do my best,” he says, but thinks he has a point. If Leon’s always going to be in the middle of it, they might as well give him something to do while he’s there.

“Sorry about your nose,” Leon says in lieu of a good night, as he enters the building.

John will talk to Harold about it.

//

They start calling them Numbers, because for the sake of its ingrained code of privacy, The Machine doesn’t give them much else. It also seems fitting that there winds up being quite a high number _of_ Numbers.

Nathan has spent a lot of time – both before college and during – trying to convince Harold that the most important thing about college isn’t the classwork, but the connections you make. It’s a point Harold understands, even if he has never had any particular desire to turn college into an elongated friend-making expedition. However, somewhere in the middle of being university students and weekend superheroes, Harold finds himself surrounded by people he doesn’t care to imagine himself without in the long run.

John stands at the forefront of all this.

John with his secret smiles and warm voice and easy way of startling Harold to laughter, has become such familiar company it’s almost as if he’s always been there. Even with the Numbers, the natural way he fits himself into their stories in whatever way they need him. Harold knows, intimately, how safe John’s presence can make a person feel and sends him a lot of Numbers who might not have gotten home without him walking beside them. Though, of course, Fusco doesn’t refer to John and Shaw as “The Mayhem Twins” because they shrink from a fight. Harold is loathed to send them into any real danger, but must admit, watching them fight together is… well, quite nearly graceful.

Harold doesn’t often find himself given physical numbers, but John tells him – as do several of the Numbers – that he’s a rather soothing voice to hear over the telephone. He talks quite a few people, particularly the frightened or lonely, out of bad decisions. Occasionally, when those bad decisions have freewill and decide to show up after being asked to leave, they’ll find themselves walking into Zoe and Root. Zoe because there’s a depth and subtlety to her threats, Root because there is _no_ subtlety to hers.

It’d been something of what Harold had feared when he brought her on, but The Machine… well, if he didn’t know any better, he would say it _likes_ her. He knows it talks to her, privately through the hearing aid she’d almost never worn before, but now never removes. Something about it seems to have calmed some of the prickliness between them, the sharp tone of her occasional flirting rounding out to something genuinely friendly. When she kisses his cheek, it doesn’t seem like it’s done to unsettle him, even when she does it just to rankle John.

What exactly Root gets out of this, other than the twisted satisfaction of seeing abusers squirm when she smiles at them, he isn’t sure. But Zoe has acquired a gaggle of star-struck, dedicated people in her circle of acquaintances who would drop everything if she called. There isn’t a single major at the college she doesn’t have a connection in, and she’s intent on working her way through all the activities and sports teams as well.

Joss starts considering law school after she and Nathan get very good at ‘dispute resolution’, both for the Machine and for the university. Having both of them work as student mediators means that they don’t have to make excuses for knowing about people. Anonymity protecting the people suggesting mediation means that there doesn’t expressly have to _be_ a caller. If the Machine calls and gives them a Number, getting that Number to walk into the student center is a lot simpler than showing up at their dorm. Lionel is a little blunt for the task, but as they have found out, people who find professionalism untrustworthy are often more taken with crass frankness. Lionel finds himself with more friends lingering around than he knows what to do with.

Harold is, of course, in a similar predicament, with significant digits than he’d accounted on having before. Even _John’s_ friends have grown on Harold.

There’s an odd fear to the mixing of friend groups, but being so close working the Numbers makes it sort of inevitable.

Harold tries not to let himself linger on that thought in anything but bemusement. As anticipated, Zoe and Nathan make for a terrifying pair, easily owning just about any event they walk into. John seems just as perplexed as anyone by how Shaw and Root have warmed to each other, meaning they save their most malicious and overt attentions for one another. Though, Lionel for some reason can’t seem to stay out of the line of fire.  Joss told Harold that for all Lionel’s threats and name calling, he’s not trying very hard to be left alone anymore. Harold thinks she sounds grateful to him when she says this, though he can’t begin to imagine why.

Leon, too, has become a regular in his presence, though he is well beyond needing tutoring at this juncture and makes no excuses for hanging around Harold. As a matter of fact, Leon doesn’t bother trying to excuse most of his behaviors. Harold is just thinking out quirky it is that Leon sent him a Christmas card when they live literally less than a _block_ from each other when it occurs to him what he’s looking at.

At some point last semester, Leon had started bugging everyone about taking pictures.

Nobody had really wanted to be involved in Leon’s efforts, but Leon is nothing if not persistent. Though Harold doesn’t remember Leon taking this picture, he does remember this night. Leon’s bright smile is front and center in the photo as he holds his phone out, but the others around the table are all hardly paying attention. Zoe has paused to smile for him from under Nathan’s arm, because she always knows when a photo is being taken, but everyone else is caught between lively conversation and food. Joss and Shaw have gotten into it with Lionel about something distracting enough that Shaw doesn’t realize Root is stealing her food. Harold remembers shaking his head at them, sipping his drink, but at the moment, he hadn’t caught the look on John’s face.

John looks so wondrously love-struck as he smiles down at Harold, that in the present it makes Harold’s heart stumble in his chest. Even the implication of being so observably adored was enough to send a dizzying flush to his cheeks. The “ _TEAM MACHINE, Love, Leon_ ” scrawled over the date on the back in Leon’s sloppy print had him nearly full enough to burst. He isn’t quite sure what his face is doing in response to that, but it makes John call his name softly, reaching for his hand in concern.

Harold clears his throat, offers him the picture. John’s hand tightens just slightly when he sees it, warmth rising in his eyes. He looks up sheepishly. “Nice picture,” he says, handing it back. “Wonder if I get a copy.”

“Surely, you have,” Harold replies, turning to prop it up on his desk. “Though, we could ask Leon to be sure.”

“We could,” John agrees. “Do you know where everyone is tonight?”

“Of course not,” Harold answers, but holds out his hand anyway. He doesn’t really need the help up, but he likes feeling John’s hand in his nearly as much as John likes taking it.

With a quick text to confirm Leon wasn’t out for the night, Harold and John make their trek under the streetlights. By the time they reach Leon’s door, Lionel is already knocking,  gruff and embarrassed in his hoodie, Joss looking significantly more entertained beside him. “He nearly started crying into his study guide,” she says.

“Of course he did,” John replies.

“Bite me, Wonder Boy, I—”

The door swings open suddenly and if Leon was excited to see Lionel through the peephole, he about goes through the roof when he sees the others.

Harold has never been in a group hug nor had any real desire to, but when Leon comes forward already babbling excitedly, he decides to be a good sport about being squished between John and Joss.

There’s a sort of joy to the plan-less get-together, the conversation crisscrossing the room is loose and comfortable as they lounge around. At some point, Zoe and Nathan show up, bearing a half-finished bottle of wine that nobody decides to ask about the origins of. They’re in the middle of what Harold considers to be a truly disgusting game of Cards Against Humanity when there’s another knock at the door.

Shaw blinks in confusion when Leon opens the door with clear excitement on his face that only spikes when he registers Root standing behind her. Root has never been close to Leon, but he seems dead set on winning her over; it’s slow going, if it’s going at all. But when she comes in and treats him like a cat person would treat an excited puppy just to be nice, it’s better than whatever he’d been getting apparently. He’s lit up like a Christmas tree and Harold can’t quite keep the smile off his face.

There’s not really enough space in Leon’s dorm for all of them, but at some point the spaces between them got comfortable enough to nearly close completely. They’re reaching past each other and bumping shoulders like siblings, Shaw and Root quickly dominating the game with ruthless humor.

It’s a rarity, really, when Harold doesn’t tire of parties quickly. He is an only child, used to his own company or quiet one-on-ones; the only large groups he spends any significant length of time with are his students. So it comes as something of a surprise to look up when Nathan stifles a yawn, finding several hours have passed comfortably between games and conversation. Harold is sitting on Leon’s bed, with John sitting on the floor against his leg and he doesn’t particularly want to move, even if he is tired. He has the feeling Leon wouldn’t even ask them to leave. He would probably be more than happy to leave them scattered across the room overnight, but Harold doesn’t want to subject his back to the floor.

Zoe smiles at him, before turning to pat Nathan’s thigh. “Well, _my_ old man has been up well past his bedtime.”

“Don’t use me as an excuse to finish your nightly cleanse routine,” Nathan replies lightly, but stretches like he means to stand.

The rest start shuffling after them, halfheartedly cleaning up and talking about their finals as they head for the door, bidding each other good luck and good night. They’re all standing in the hall when Leon speaks up.

“Well, that was fun, no sarcasm. I’m glad we’re friends,” he says in a yawn, casually like it hardly even registers to him. But the fact that he said it with such honest ease brings Harold up short, and it seems he’s not the only one.

Leon is much too old for John to ruffle his hair, but that does nothing to stop it from happening. He goes flush when Root indulgently cups his cheek, though. “We should study together sometime,” she says and that spells all sorts of trouble that Leon clearly doesn’t catch in her tone because he squeaks, “ _Sure, whenever!_ ”

Shaw doesn’t seem inclined to rescue him and John grabs Harold’s hand before he can say anything, smiling like, _come on, she won’t actually damage him._

Lionel walks off with Joss like it’s instinct, even as he fights off a yawn and Joss tells him to go home. Shaw and Root falling into step with them just means Lionel’s going to show up to the dorm sleepy and affectionately annoyed so John smiles at him even when that gets him the finger. Harold shakes his head at them, a natural reaction at this point, but lets John keep his hand.

Harold is unsurprised by John’s soft smile pressing against his mouth when they reach the front of his building, but he is a little surprised by the “Thank you,” he gets instead of a “Good night, Harold.”

“Whatever for?” Harold asks, but then John is there, kissing the confused twist on his forehead until it smooths.

“I’m glad I kept your tie,” John replies, and Harold is apt enough to understand his meaning, understand how much everything that has followed means to him.

Harold still gives him a dry look. “I’m glad you gave it back,” he replies cupping John’s face, “it’s why you stick around, isn’t it?”

“Must be,” John lies and kisses Harold again.

There’s a drowsy sort of absentness to Harold as he gets ready for bed on autopilot, but he still pauses when he reaches to turn his lamp off. He picks up the picture on his desk and just stares at it in wonder.

“Team Machine,” he says to himself, before humming curiously.

It feels a little hasty to get inspired about the future by just one picture. Surely, things are going to change between here and graduation that he can’t possibly foresee. But then again, he built the Machine to worry about the things he can’t foresee. Right now, he just has a feeling, the beginnings of an idea.

Harold goes to bed with the future on his mind and, just this once, it doesn’t alarm him.

//

“So,” Shaw begins, hands folded behind her, back ramrod straight.

“So,” John agrees, smiling as the cameras flash in their faces.

Graduation is a pretty big affair for all students, but after going through it and the ROTC ceremonies and being subjected to a seemingly endless line of people wanting to smile and shake his hand – ending with Harold kissing his proud smile – John finds himself weirdly amped up. This feels a lot less like an ending than it had when he watched it approaching on the horizon a few years ago, it doesn’t really feel like an ending at all. Still, there’s something bittersweet about standing on campus for what’ll probably be the last time. Unless Harold decides to actually become a professor here, that’s still a little up in the air.

Regardless, aside from all the fanfare he’s shared with his fellow students, he does have one last Number to attend to before they head off to serve.

“Are you really going to recruit him?” Shaw asks in a tone that might pass for neutral on anyone else, but betrays some annoyance as she looks over at the Number.

Joss shakes her head.  “If the military is gonna piss him off bad enough to go freelance, it’s better we get to him before…” She gives a motion of her hand that John takes to mean “ _whoever the hell else is out there._ ”

John shrugs. “Figure the best way to keep him out of trouble is to take him in before trouble gets the chance.”

“Did you rehearse that?” Shaw sneers, “Do you have index cards?”

Joss takes a moment to hug him, though. “Meet us after,” she says, “If he causes trouble, I’ll let Shaw shoot him.”

Rick Dillinger has never been John’s favorite person, not through college, not now that they’re going to be heading into basic together. But John trusts Harold Finch’s Machine almost as much as he trusts Harold Finch himself. If sticking with Rick will save lives, even if it’s just Rick’s life, he’ll figure out a way to stick with Rick.

When Rick spots him approaching, they salute each other instantly. “Reese,” he says with just enough hesitation for John to know he didn’t think of his _name_ first.

“Dillinger,” John replies smoothly, nodding to the path that twists up away from the school’s main fountain. “Got a moment?”

The flash of distrust across Rick’s face is purely instinctual, but the way his eyes narrow is for John’s sake. “You gonna try to beat me up for talking to your boyfriend?”

John smiles, the implications of that ‘try’ not lost on him, nor the sharpness around the word ‘boyfriend’. Rick was hardly more than a pushy blip on Harold’s radar until the Machine said to pay attention. John had never _stopped_ paying attention, but he’s working on not being _That Guy_ , not when he never has to question where he stands in his relationship with Harold. He’s not pulling out rulers with Rick Fucking Dillinger.

(…He’s also not leaving him alone with Harold ever in this life, but that’s a whole different issue.)

“I try not to think about it,” he replies neutrally. “I’m actually here… professionally, I guess.”

“Ok…” Rick doesn’t look any more enthused, but turns to walk the way John had indicated. “Wanna clue me in on which profession?”

“Harold is starting a business with his buddy Nathan,” John explains, thinks back on the weeks he’d spent watching the two of them pull their hair out over legal paperwork and the near-daily phone calls necessary to get to this point. Zoe had run her hand through Nathan’s hair, claiming she could feel it going grey, and John could sympathize. Harold was going through caffeinated tea like it was going out of style.

Here they are, though, in the first phases of expanding their project into the real, non-collegiate world.

“Oh, yeah?” Rick replies, and to his credit doesn’t sound sarcastic when he says, “Good for him.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, as they follow the trail. “They got this big idea to stop problems before they become problems.”

Rick gives him a long look that starts mocking, then abruptly twists with incredulity. “You’re serious. What, is he a psychic now?”

“He built a machine,” John begins, though it feels a little wrong to call it _a_ machine, like it’s one out of any others. The Machine pretty much stands alone. “There’s a lot of technobabble to what it does, but basically it can figure out the probability of violent crimes happening down to the minute, maybe less,” he stops walking, giving Rick a level look. “It’s gonna need people to actually do something before that minute hits.”

Rick is looking at him like he believes _John_ believes what John is saying, and is considering having him discharged before he even gets to the Army. “Sounds pretty phony to me, Reese.”

“Or just high tech, Dillinger.” John retorts, then shrugs. “But speaking of phones, you can talk to Her about it, if you really want.”

“Her?” Rick replies, but turns when the emergency phone behind him starts ringing. He cuts his eyes at John. “You shitting me?”

John nods at the phone. “It’s for you.”

There’s a somewhat cocky air to Rick as he scoffs, but he still saunters almost boredly over to the phone. “Dillinger speaking, waiting for the Punk’d cameras,” he says immediately. “Where’s Ashton Kutcher?” After listening for a moment, the nonchalance slowly leaches from his face. He looks startled and intent when he turns first to John, then looks up past his shoulder.

“Ok…” Rick says slowly, “You have my attention.”

John turns to find the same security camera Rick had, smiling proudly. “Are you there, Finch?” he asks, just loud enough for the phone in his pocket to pick up.

It takes only a moment for John to realize the light on the camera is blinking out Morse code.

It feels a little prophetic when he realizes it’s spelling out “ _Always_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Entigral, this turned out longer than initially intended and I hope that makes up for the fact that it’s way, _way freakin’_ late. I hope you enjoyed it, if not feel free to stand in the town square and berate my idiocy (or just send me a message so I can make it up to you!). But again, thank you so, so very much for donating and giving me a chance to participate.
> 
> And as always, thanks to all those who read! Questions, comments, concerns, cards? All are welcome and appreciated!


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